Wayfaring Stranger
by Leroy J
Summary: It's been three years since Clint has seen Natasha. He's been dismissed from S.H.I.E.L.D & the Avengers team. Discovering a certain redhead has been compromised during a suicide mission, he is needed when he is most unstable. Lies, secrets, and love.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Wayfaring Stranger**

**Rating: T**

**Disclaimer: I don't own 'Tasha or Clint or any other familiar character that pops up.**

**Summary:** It's been three years since Clint has seen Natasha. He's been dismissed from S.H.I.E.L.D & the Avengers team. Discovering a certain redhead has been compromised during a suicide mission, he is needed when he is the most unstable. Lies, secrets, and love. _  
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**Hi, everybody! I've been working on this Clint-centric story for a while. I have fallen in love with the Clint/Natasha pairing. They're a tragic pair so why not throw Clint into a bunch of tragedy? I'm mean, I know.**

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**_Please leave feedback after reading so I will know if enough of you ladies & gents are interested in knowing the rest of Clint's story. I'm just a poor college student and any comments are enough to feed me for another chapter__. We all win in the end!_**

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**1**

It was pouring buckets outside the little bar in New York. The bartender had to go in the back and search for a pail to capture a leak just near the tap. Clint had been in this little hole-in-the-wall for nearly three hours. His tab would probably be higher than he first estimated, but he told himself to fuck it and drink what he wanted. He was having a celebration of sorts. The bartender was his buddy anyway; maybe he'd give Clint a little discount for all of the rounds he bought. Clearly, this place didn't get much business and that was exactly why Barton liked it. Nobody whispering behind his back, nobody trying to spark a conversation with him; he didn't want to deal with that shit tonight. The bar held four people, the skinny, black haired bartender, the two old men in the back that didn't give a shit about the news or about heroes, and himself. It was a great place to be when a man had nothing to lose and nothing to gain.

He let his thumb trace the minor scoops in the glass of his drink. He thought about how much a shipment of them would cost, he wondered how cheap the bartender got them for. Clint started to laugh to himself.

"Something really funny, Barton?" The bartender grumbled, throwing a gritty towel over his shoulder.

Something was really funny. Only a few years ago, Clint and the rest of the Avengers were treated like royalty after saving Manhattan from a nuclear devastation. There were parties in the streets until four a.m., there were a couple of parades, and invites to the White House. Everybody wanted to get their little piece of history, of superheroes. Clint's face was on billboards and there were action figures too, he remembered Tony adding the Avengers' Iron Man edition to his collection in a little glass case. They were treated like gods, he didn't hate the celebrations he needed to participate in with his team mates at the time, he just felt out of place; an assassin given a hero's expectation. So he could do nothing but laugh at where he was now, the parties and celebrations seemed like another lifetime to him. Nothing to show for it all except a few battle scars and a sore knee whenever it would get too cold.

Clint nodded, "Yeah, Ernie. I was laughing at how cheap this glass must have been. I've drank out of the crystal of royalty, man. Some Queen Elizabeth kind of glasses."

Ernie the bartender gave Clint a warning grumble. He continued to laugh and when seeing Ernie's annoyance, it made the situation more entertaining.

"It's not you, Ernie. It's all just made up. Everything about everything is a lie. This glass right here," Clint raised the whiskey glass and pointed to it sloppily, "this _glass_ is the same to me as the Queen's." he dropped his whiskey glass on the bar and it spilled everywhere as he stood up. Clint leaned closer to Ernie's red face and whispered, "You know what? They never tell you that you're no longer needed. Oh, no, they send you a goddamn fancy letter asking you to take your leave at the agency for a while. Your team mates are asked to not contact you and when they try, you know because… _because _she'd never just leave for another place and keep everything confidential from you. She _owed _you. You know? You can't just sleep with her, fall in love with her, and then lose her all at the same time!" Clint leaned away from Ernie slowly and spoke very darkly, "where is the justice in any of that?"

He felt pitiful and drunk. This man didn't give two shits about all of Clint's woes and worries, all he cared about was getting paid and then going home to his wife. What that feeling was like, Clint couldn't even imagine. He had nothing back at his apartment but a few empty bottles, two packs of playing cards heavily bent, and a bed he usually never slept in.

Clint growled and exhaled, rubbing his brow with a tired hand. He was giving this guy hell because he was standing right in front of him, but he was still having trouble swallowing down the bubbling fury he felt.

Ernie snapped the towel off of his shoulder, but not before giving Clint a good long glare. As he began wiping up the spilled liquor he countered Clint's argument, "Where's that big hero guy who never missed, huh? What happened to him, Barton?" his voice was raspy and strong.

Clint reached across the bar and before he knew what he was doing he had the bartender by his grubby shirt. "I was never a real hero! I'm just an ex-assassin with a worthless sob story."

Ernie squeezed Clint's fist strongly and pushed him off. "No. Damn it, Barton. You missed once and now you're gon' cry like a goddamn baby." Clint's anger rose, but Ernie continued, "Everybody misses every once in a while… even the fucking Hawkeye guy. He can miss; he's only human for god's sake."

Did Ernie still see Clint in a better light than he figured? Why would he even bother to say that to him? He knew he was human. What he used to think was his greatest pride, now was his taboo. Clint was a guy with an incredible skill set, gained through hard work and time. When he remembered he was human now, it only made him upset.

Maybe if he was superhuman, things could have been different.

Two thick hands grabbed him threateningly at the shoulders. Clint could take two punches and knock the two old men out for a day, but he decided against it. His heart quickened and he felt dizzy. He wanted to leave, to walk out into the rain and hope some of it could wash away the things he hated.

Looking into Clint's eyes knowingly, Ernie spoke. "You should go home now." It was not an order, it was a concerned request. It made Clint feel childish and stupid.

Shaking the old men off, he threw down a hundred dollar bill in the spilled whiskey and left the bar. An overhead bell jingled mockingly as he continued onto the cracked sidewalk filled with storm puddles. It was still raining and it was dark now.

Warm. The sky was peacefully content with the sheets streaming from it. His jacket was soaked in seconds. Warm, dirty, New York rain. Something that made sense to him. Clint could tell when it was going to rain, like a sixth sense. He didn't know the hour or the minute it would happen, he just knew that it would. Seemed like a talent. He sensed it with her. He knew he was in danger of losing her then, and when she slipped from his grasp so suddenly, he was lost.

As he continued to stand in the rain, watching apartment lights flicker on in the poorer side of the city, he only pitied and when he looked at things, they changed into something horrific. The lights from the windows looked down at him like the yellow eyes of a monster. Everything was watching him. Would they be his audience as he crept slowly into nothing? An image of laughing, teeth filled windows frightened him.

Eyelashes dripped dirty water, eyes burning, Clint wondered if he was going to cry. Popping the collar of his black jacket, he began to walk back to his apartment a few blocks away. When he got that way, he wondered what she was doing, maybe _who _she was doing. Clint didn't know, and Natasha made it clear that she didn't want him to know.

His eyes weren't trained on a target, they were simply open. They were open and Clint couldn't see a thing. It was like a static behind his eyeballs and it never left him alone. Feeling like his body was swirling in sticky warm rain, he began to walk faster, trying anything he could to escape it.

_The rain_. The rain reminded him of her blood. That's what it was. The uncanny, uncomfortable baptism of the city rain made him remember. Instinctively he reached out, catching the sticky rain as it fell. Clint wanted to scream.

It was red in his hands. Blood.

_Natasha._

His eyes stung and his head felt full of parasites, taking bites out of his brain before he could even fight back. Was somebody in his mind? Was this his brain?

The sad thing was—Clint could hardly tell the difference anymore.

Clint began to dart down the sidewalk. Running and running as fast as he could to get away from it. The blood was on his face, in his eyes, and in his mouth. He wanted to plead to God to have it stop.

"Natasha!" he belted, passing confused civilians on the sidewalk.

The rain seeped through his clothes and into his pores. He still ran. It was his entire fault, her blood that was on his hands. An image of her wound, running red and slick, the feeling of wiping sweat off of the back of his hand and her blood staining his forehead, her green eyes that were calmer than his. The look in them when she yelled at him to get it together.

It echoed in his mind, "_I missed and she…"_

He saw blood pool from his victims and targets before, Clint even saw her blood before. But being the cause of its spill was different to Clint. He didn't do his job, he failed the mission, and got Natasha critically wounded.

"_It happens to the best of agents," Fury told him when they arrived back at headquarters. "Everybody's gotta learn to miss."_

Clint just wanted to get inside his dark apartment and be freed from the open world. Everything and everyone could see him running and yelling like a mental patient down the streets of New York. Nobody cared who he was anymore and that may have been an advantage. Maybe he was just another crazy on the streets. Heroes go crazy don't they? If they live long enough, he figured. Why would Clint Barton be an exception to this fate?

He stopped at the front of his apartment complex's entrance. His stomach tightened and he finally understood it all.

He wasn't a hero. Maybe he never was. A former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, an ex-assassin, and a washed up Avenger, Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, was simply a mortal man with blood on his hands.

Miserably, he walked up the flights of stairs to his apartment. He thought about the broken elevator, and then wondered if he closed the small window by his favorite armchair, hoping it wasn't soaked with that rain. Occupying his mind with stupid, useless things was always a coping mechanism of his because he was good at it. Years and years of killing could make the mind do that—come up with frivolous thought patterns to cover the sound of a falling body. One never gets used to the sound of a target's last cry.

_Christ, he was drunk._

Clint stopped and gripped the railing of the stairwell with every last bit of anger in him. That job of his, to be the world's best marksman was supposed to make him a predator, not a victim. Now, and forever he would be both. Everything wasn't so oil and water as he first thought.

Finally in his apartment, Clint stumbled through the door, feeling exerted from running three blocks. He detected a difference in the place, his heightened senses kicking in. Intruder?

"It's been three years, guy."

Clint whipped around ready to take down the intruder. His arms quickly took hold of a neck. How— and who just found him? Was it the agency? They left him for dead, guts for them to just waltz into his place. Clint began to get angry; the intruder squirmed and huffed in his grasp. He heard something that sounded like, "okay, then," before receiving a painful shock through his body.

As Clint lied on the floor, he squinted to see through the black of his place. A silhouette drifted closer to him with a sort of an offset swagger. He blinked and shook his head a bit, his limbs tingled and useless.

"Tony?" Clint questioned, completely dumbfounded.

Tony coughed, "Thanks for the greeting, Barton. That wasn't how I pictured the family reunion."

Clint said nothing but continued to stare at his old team mate in disbelief. His brain felt even fuzzier than before and the Taser blow did something unpleasant to his stomach. Clint couldn't think. Who the fuck did Tony think he was, coming up in his place without warning? He was tossed from the team, why even bother to rub it in Clint's face? What did he want from him anyway, to mock his failure ever since his leave as a hero?

"You know I'm sorry about that first little shock," Tony walked over and flipped on the lights of the apartment then staring down at Clint with a sad and disgusted frown. "And… I'm going to feel even worse after the second one."

Clint felt a cold sweat break out from under his soggy, sticky clothes. He dreaded what was about to follow. He figured Tony was going to Taser him again, but he dreaded the sick that was crawling up his throat even more. He felt it burn his throat and finally spill onto the floor of his apartment. How his old friend could see him in all his glory, it made him want to laugh. Though still very angry, confused, and slightly humored, he noticed Tony never even cracked a mocking smile at him. Not even once.

"Okay, I'm really sorry for this, but you need to get cleaned up and calmed down before I can even begin to talk with you."

Tony reached for a device on his wrist, never letting his eyes off of Clint. He bit his lip, then rustled his feet, and finally groaned. His eyes seemed sad and it confused Clint, it also made him feel pitiful. He was lying in his own sick, drunk, soaking wet, and smelling of whiskey. Tony rolled his eyes. Clint's head began to pound furiously. He wished he could really dissolve away into nothing. He tried before. No such good luck could reach him.

Tony walked over and grabbed Clint by the coat, looking determined. Clint didn't even bother to object too much as Tony dragged him into the bathroom right into the bottom of the shower. Avoiding Clint's eyes, he flicked on the hot water and waited until it washed over Clint's face, cleaning him of vomit.

"I wish things were different, Barton." he spoke it strongly. Tony turned and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Clint groaned and covered his eyes. His arms bore goose bumps under his soggy clothes as the hot water streamed over him. For the first time seeing Tony in six months, this wasn't how he wanted any reunion to be. Feeling self-conscious, he tightened his jaw trying to look like he still had something going for him. The sound of the shower was enough to cover up the choking sobs he held in for three years. He knew Tony could hear them if he really wanted to, but it suddenly didn't matter to him.

Once he cleaned up and clothed himself he slowly walked out into his living area. He smelled pizza coming from his small kitchen and suddenly felt famished. Clint was confused sure, but he was also hungry. He stepped into the kitchen and Tony turned around.

Tony took a moment to allow his dark eyes to take in Clint from head to toe. He made a small frown, "You know you really need to write a strongly worded letter to your landlord about that broken elevator. Climbing up seven flights of stairs is very time consuming. Why you picked the highest floor to live on, I could never fathom."

Clint was grateful that Tony didn't pick him to bits after what just happened. It would have been the perfect opportunity for anyone. Hawkeye, letting himself go in an apartment with a soaking wet physique, choking his old team mate half to death, in an apartment filled with empty drinking bottles because there was nothing else he thought he could have. Clint was still partially stunned that Tony was in his apartment, actually there, casual and smooth as always. His mind still tingled and felt fuzzy and he was doing his best to think more quickly and clearly after showering up. He tried to remember what Tony just said about living on the top floor.

"I like high places," he stammered out.

Tony raised an eyebrow and gave him a light smirk. "Okay, this is what's going to happen. I really don't want to say anything to you, but I figure, hell, you're a trained assassin and you can handle my nitpicking and acting-like-mommy moment coming up so… why did you do this to yourself? Drink, sleep, sulk, then repeat—and _what _is that irritating squawking sound?" He made a humorous turn around, eyeing the apartment.

Clint shrugged, "A bird."

"Really, that's funny with the whole Hawkeye thing," Tony grabbed the stack of playing cards from the small table that sat next to the box of pizza and he began shuffling them.

"They were going to kill the thing so I said I would take it," Clint was becoming annoyed.

"A bird?" Tony thought about it for a second and then passed it off. "Okay, a bird. I can work with that. But like I was saying, Clint… I am here for an actual reason, but you need to clear your head and more importantly…drink this hangover solution I've concocted from the scraps and bits of things you own."

He stood there until he could process what Tony wanted him to do. "You want me drink that?" Clint frowned looking at a slimy green glass of things he couldn't even imagine.

"Yes, clearly," Tony retorted unsympathetically.

Biting the inside of his mouth, Clint pondered. Tony was here in his apartment when he shouldn't be. They both knew very well that Tony was forbidden to visit Clint, which led his slow moving brain to process the actual question he needed to ask.

"What are you doing here, Tony? We both know none of you are supposed to contact me." Clint got braver and moved closer to his old team mate. Why should he take orders from him?

Tony got extremely quiet and subdued. His eyes were suddenly sadder looking and it made Clint nervous. When Tony stopped playing games, things were serious. His throat tightened and his first fear clouded his brain like a flowing fog.

_Natasha._

Tony continued to shuffle the cards around slowly, thoughtfully. He was buying his time, trying to figure out a light way of putting whatever he needed to say, carefully. It made Clint want to yell at his old friend, but he held it. He knew Tony was probably keeping some sort of eye on him, of course under the eyes of S.H.I.E.L.D and the council. He probably was even sneaking around the back of Clint's old friend, Nick Fury. A stab of betrayal hit him. Nobody could hand Clint a remedy to heal him of the betrayal he held in his heart. He wasn't sure anyone could make it up to him. He thought, perhaps he wasn't worth that to anyone anymore anyway. He wasn't even worth it to himself.

Clint asked again, "Why are you here? It isn't to check up on an old pal is it?" The look on Tony's face was enough evidence to show that wasn't it by any means.

"That's part of why I'm here… the checking up part," Tony set the cards down and began to walk over to the window of the apartment and continued, "I'm sure you figured it out, but I've been trying my best to keep tabs on you. Sounds a little creepy, but I mean well, I promise."

Clint wanted to cut to the chase, he wasn't going to let Tony play mind games with him just like Natasha used to do. "Natasha. Is it about her? Yes or no," he didn't sound angry, just plain. That scared him, for what he felt in his intestines wasn't the least bit plain.

Tony continued walking closer to the window, a bit out of Clint's line of vision so he followed him. It was like a game of cat and mouse. Predator and prey, both carefully followed one another's leading hand. There was so much tension in the small space of the apartment that it could be severed with a single breath. Clint's goose bumps on his arms rose even higher. Part of him didn't want to know, and the other half desperately needed to.

"Three months after you were dismissed from your S.H.I.E.L.D and Avenger's duties, Natasha took a leave from our little superhero team as well. The World Security Council, you know, Fury's bosses, our buddies who just love the idea of power, well, they sent her out to a small town in Ohio. It took me a while to actually hack into the mission file, and even the file didn't say too much…"

"Did Fury send her there?" Clint snarled.

Tony looked slightly taken aback, which confused Clint, because Fury was the one who sent him the letter of leave from S.H.I.E.L.D after their mission failure. It wouldn't surprise Clint if Nick Fury continued to use Natasha's skills until she was drained to bits…

"No, Fury was trying _everything _in his power to keep Natasha from being sent over to Italy. In the end, everything he did never mattered. She accepted and was shipped off before any of us even knew."

Clint felt his fists gather into tight balls. "Where is she in Italy?"

Tony dropped his head and shrugged. "I'm not sure, like I said, I had to dig for a month just to find out she was in Italy. They really didn't want anybody to know," Tony set the deck of cards on the windowsill and looked up at Clint again, "In fact if it wasn't for Fury, I wouldn't know as much as I do."

The idea of Natasha in Italy on a mission so secretive that even the great Tony Stark couldn't find much trail on it made his legs weak. There were two things he knew for certain. If an agent was handed a mission file so guarded and secret, it surely meant death. And if it was a mandatory mission of that scale, there was a lot of history as to why and who.

"You said she accepted it, why would she accept it if Fury tried everything to stop her shipment?" Clint's brain began to turn, he hadn't seen Natasha for three years, but that didn't mean he forgot who she was. In fact, that would be the last thing he could do. He thought about her every waking minute.

Her hair so red and lips so supple. Her eyes after they made love that night. The feel of her skin against his. She laughed at him when he woke up before her and all he could do was smile and gently traced the palm of her hand. Clint wasn't a romantic by far, but Natasha made him feel and do things that he could only explain as being alive. He was never a beating, useful heart until her. He remembered the look of fear in her eyes when he mumbled that he loved her. The tension in her neck. He waved it off, seeing her reaction. She bumped his shoulder and told him she was starving. She got off the bed and slipped her black shirt back on. Clint wished she hadn't. He remembered watching it gently fall over her strong abdomen and how the temperature of the room was as perfect as was the morning light. He remembered hanging his head shamelessly wishing Natasha had whispered her love back to him.

Clint's face fell. His muscles were useless as was his brain when his heart took over for the first time in three long years. He opened his mouth and he knew it was the right answer before he even muttered it.

"She's been compromised," it was a soft breath of wonder and angst.

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**If anyone wants some more chapters and angst, they know where to tell the poor college student! **

**And if anyone wants to yell at said college student, well... same thing.**

**Have a fantastic day, friends-**

**Cassie**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Wayfaring Stranger**

**Rating: T**

**Disclaimer: I don't own 'Tasha or Clint or any other familiar character that pops up.**

**Summary:** It's been three years since Clint has seen Natasha. He's been dismissed from S.H.I.E.L.D & the Avengers team. Discovering a certain redhead has been compromised during a suicide mission, he is needed when he is the most unstable. Lies, secrets, and love.

**Hi, folks. I hope this is enough to hold everyone over. I'm going on vacation to Myrtle Beach in early July, WHICH I'M EXCITED FOR. Ohio can get a little old, you know?**

**Also, this is a long chapter and keep your minds open and ready for a flow of information. Clint's thoughts really change.**

You'll either _love _me or _hate _me after this chapter. That's the only clue I can drop.

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_Ok, WOW. I am shocked at how many people added this for alerts and favorites. I appreciate that you all took time to read through this and then enjoy it to that point. So to each and everyone of you: thank you._

**_Listen, here's some real talk. Reviews are my favorite thing and I love all of you so much and your opinions so leave me one (or twelve) and I'll write you an even better next chapter. No, but please... do it. Cap would want you to._**

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**2**

So he stood in his apartment, allowing everything to fade in front of him. The lines and details smudged and colors faded. He felt this only one other time before.

"_How about you get the macho man over there and I'll get DeLuca?" Clint grinned at his redheaded partner and admired how wonderful she could still look even when sweat rested upon her brow. Natasha raised an eyebrow in her teasing manner and grabbed the vest of his suit. She pulled him close and whispered in his ear as bullets flew through the air, "About that time when you told me you loved me? Well I…"_

"Barton?"

Clint's eyes watered and he inhaled a raspy breath. He did love her more than he realized. This was what he was avoiding all along, it coming back. The guilt, the loneliness, and the aches were enough to bring him to his knees and heave for air. He forgot why he even bothered staying alive.

Tony cleared his throat and spoke quietly. "There's this thing I heard from Pepper, and I don't know if I believe it myself, but if a woman like Pepper does, then it's good enough for me to pass along to an old friend." He held his head low and stood still as Tony continued to speak, obviously treading on careful ground. "She said something along the lines of—the ones who love the most hurt the most." Tony gave Clint a shrug and walked over to the box of pizza to grab a slice.

That nonsense didn't mean much to Clint now, and maybe Tony was just trying to make him feel better about nearly sobbing in front of him.

"But again, I don't believe in any of that frilly quote stuff myself."

"Er—right, Tony."

Clint still felt foggy and though his nerves were bugging him, he walked over and grabbed a slice too. Tony was vital for he held all of the information Clint needed. In a way, it bugged him that Tony was the one to know more about Natasha at this time than he did. Didn't he swear to himself that he would try his best to watch her back no matter what?

Clint's nostrils flared and his old self-loathing returned.

"And you know she's alive?" he asked.

Tony looked him in the eye and nodded, "Yeah, she's alive and she's not in any immediate danger."

Clint took a sloppy bite of the greasy pizza, as if it would make him feel better.

"So what are you telling me here? She's in danger, but she's safe? She's been gone for three years and all of a sudden you arrive at my apartment—out of the blue nonetheless—and you want me to go off to Italy to find a woman who doesn't want to be found? A woman who was never meant to be found? Is that what you think, Tony?"

There were many things Clint knew about Natasha. He knew she liked apple and cinnamon oatmeal on many fall mornings. He knew she liked being woken up certain ways, a few of them sexual. Clint knew she could go and leave any time she wanted, some mornings she did, others she was nuzzled into his side. He liked those days the best. She had the eyes of a wounded creature, always watching and waiting for an attack. Those eyes warned him to let her be and forget about her, but he couldn't do that. It seemed easy for Natasha to up and leave a history behind, but for him, that was near impossible.

Though Natasha couldn't fool him forever, he knew she had nightmares of her past. He knew Natasha could never look at life or things in a beautiful way, especially herself. He saw the good in her, and when she left, Clint wondered, did she ever see the goodness without him?

Tony set down his slice and slid into a rickety kitchen chair.

"I don't know what I think, Clint. I don't know much more than the files and lies I hacked into, but you! You, my friend, _know _her. I should be asking you the same questions." Tony wiped his hands on a paper towel and looked up at Clint with worry in his eyes. "You were the only one who knew her. In a way, the rest of the team only knew of her. You've got one hell of an advantage, more than the rest of us back at Stark Tower."

So the rest of the team was looking out for Natasha as well, not just Tony. He felt relief in that knowledge. If there was a group of people he figured he could trust they would be residing in Stark Tower. Sure, he spat at the occasional superhero stories on the Avengers nowadays, but that didn't mean he thought of them as lesser men. In fact, Clint would be the lesser man in this situation.

"You want me to give you a profile on Natasha? You want to learn her greatest fears or maybe the way her mind works? Do you want an instruction manual on how to make someone like her cooperate? What do you want me to do, Stark?" he felt rubbed raw, his heart divided in two directions. One side lay the Natasha he fell in love with, the other was darker and bloodier.

"I don't know. I thought maybe you'd like to get her back."

He didn't know why, but he began to laugh. "Get her back? Like I said, Natasha is the type who doesn't want to come back to things and to people. You know? Christ, it was hard enough to try to get a hold of her after the Budapest mission, and I'll be honest, if it wasn't for being compromised by Loki four years ago and the whole Avengers Initiative, I don't think I could have found Nat again."

Clint dropped his head and huffed. Sometimes he would think that maybe the two lonely hearts of theirs would have been better off far away from one another. That maybe, Natasha was a wild, exotic creature never meant to have been burdened by his heart. Clint could have walked away from her at any time over the years; she practically welcomed it at any chance, but he didn't. He chose to stay whenever she got rough with him. She was terrified to be with him, but more terrified to go. He knew it was because Natasha Romanoff loved him, and he loved her back, that was for damned sure. If she was so terrified to go, and terrified to stay—what could have made Natasha drop so low and coldly away from him? Why not whisper to him a proper goodbye? Why not tell him _something, _give him a sign even?

_But no. _Natasha Romanoff had made love to him, whispered into his ear that she wanted him. He looked into those green eyes, his thumb tracing her chin, and he gently kissed her. He wanted to tell her that he wanted her to say it, to say that she feels the same. It didn't matter to him as much now, he ruined his chance. He got her hurt. He fucked it up. She ran. End of story.

He heard his bird sing a lonely tune, sad and thoughtless down the hall. The rain finally stopped and he knew the streets would be steamy with mist. Clint wished he was sitting out of his window, letting one bare foot dangle in the night air.

"You know, Tony? She never got in touch with me, not even once since she left the Avengers and became the property of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Tony gave Clint a long, solid look as he reached into his pocket mumbling something to himself. Clint watched as he pulled out a flat, black square, punched a hovering blue key number into it, and a hologram of information scrolled across a screen. Tony quickly zoomed through information as Clint looked on curiously. Only Tony would carry such a device in his pocket.

"Aha! Come over here," Tony pulled back the chair to make room for Clint to look on. He tapped his pinky finger on a file and widened it for him to see. "Look here, I got this off of S.H.I.E.L.D's security network and I'll tell you that it wasn't easy." Tony looked at him and waved off an explanation, "Right, you know."

He nodded back, "Well, yeah. I practically helped make S.H.I.E.L.D a stronghold."

Tony snapped his fingers and asked Clint to look at the details. Clint narrowed his eyes to read all of the scrolling text. It was all incriminating to him now. Maybe if Tony showed him the same information years ago Clint wouldn't have been as ruffled about the amount of top secret files S.H.I.E.L.D locked away for privileged eyes only. What lay in Tony Stark's pocket were all of the things his agency kept from him after they sent his ass out of the shiny front doors with a simple company letter. Clint still had the letter in his apartment, sturdily signed by Nick Fury himself, dismissing Clint from his duties until further notice. That was it. That's all it took for the master marksman to head off to a dirty bar in the sketchier side of town, the letter crumpled angrily in his jacket pocket. Clint was used to being unnecessary most of his life, and when the one thing that needed him the most gave up on him too, he was done. That was even before she gave up on him too.

What he was reading now, well, was just plain cruelty.

His eyes scanned the text again and even for a third time. He backed away from it and shook his head. "No, there's no way."

"She was trying her best to send you information—anything. They had men around the clock making sure everything and anything Natasha did was not to be known and brought to you. She tried, but they would never allow her to contact you."

He was right. Tony Stark was absolutely fucking correct. Clint felt like he wanted to run out of his apartment as fast as possible. For the past few years, Natasha made four attempts to contact him, but all were immediately stopped. He saw the last logged incident on the hologram and in red it blinked 'action taken'. Clint knew that they must have threatened her to stop, that was how high profile the file went. What could Natasha be doing that made S.H.I.E.L.D so… cautious?

Was it something he did? Their failed mission? One thing was unconditionally clear, S.H.I.E.L.D did not want Clint and Natasha anywhere near one another after the failed DeLuca mission.

There was a burst of betrayal in his gut. How could he really think that their situation wasn't as complicated as he originally figured? Sure, Tony showed up at his door when he was piss ass drunk, he couldn't remember seeing Tony in two years, and Clint was confused as to what it could all be about? It all went much deeper, everything they were getting involved in now.

"Bastards," Clint rubbed his fuzzy chin. "I _helped _them, and they let me go just like that! I gave up a life for them. I don't have anything else I'm good at. I don't have a family. They wouldn't even let me have that little bit of Natasha! Well, _shit, _the little bit she would let me know about and understand anyway."

Tony watched on carefully, almost interested in Clint. He was like a new puzzle to figure out. He knew Clint before, but this was something different and it interested Tony Stark greatly. The Clint and Natasha situation was a buzzed about topic four years ago and it never really lost its buzz around certain areas of S.H.I.E.L.D. In others, it was nearly taboo. That was what sparked Tony's initial suspicion. The quiet and pitiful dismissal of Clint Barton was shocking to those who dared to ponder it. Tony recalled hearing of his dismissal about two days after Clint was gone, he, Steve, and Bruce had walked into a meeting between Nick Fury and The Council, demanding to know what happened to their teammate. With an angry, huffy statement, Nick Fury made sure they knew the consequences of contacting Clint Barton.

"I'll be damned." Clint murmured, and intense revelation buzzing his brain.

"Damned what?" Tony closed the hologram and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"I don't believe it for a second."

He saw when Clint's lips pulled into a disbelieving grin, it wasn't wondrous, but it was a spark. Clint seemed to be listening to the sound of his squawky bird in the background and a light clicked on in his brain too.

"Oh, Miss Romanoff," Tony turned to look at Clint. "She did get something through after all."

With a new fiery blaze in his eyes, Clint Barton gave a warrior nod to his old teammate.

There were three things that happened afterward.

First, the S.H.I.E.L.D agents stationed on the first level of Stark Tower, (and not necessarily to Tony's liking) had seen the ex-assassin walking alongside Tony Stark into the Tower had immediately went boggled and tried blocking their path. Tony gave them a surly smile and threatened them in a low whisper, which seemed to have scared the two young agents well enough to step out of their way. Radio bleeps and calls to their S.H.I.E.L.D bosses were surely made.

Second, Clint was greeted by Steve and Bruce who stood waiting in Tony's living quarters standing around his indoor fire pit. Bruce gave him a thoughtful grin and Steve seemed to glare at Tony for a second before shaking Clint's hand with a quiet 'how are you doing?'. Clint's head was in mission mode so he didn't pause too much to consider any feelings he had about these meetings.

Third, JARVIS calmly reported to the group that the security precautions were being overridden and that they should expect a visit from S.H.I.E.L.D's director at any moment. Steve wondered loudly whether they should keep a close eye on Clint when Fury walked through the door.

The old team stood together as the elevator doors drew open. A figure dressed in his signature black stepped out quickly as a shadow, his good eye menacing.

"I never expected this to last long." Fury clasped his one hand behind his back while the other carried a case. He stepped slowly into the environment filled with tension and questions. "In fact, Barton, I'm actually surprised it took you this long to bother with it all."

Clint's hands tightened with a deadly purpose. He wanted nothing more than to smash Nick Fury's face in, perhaps help him lose the worth of his other eye. He saw Bruce give him a low glance, warning to proceed with caution.

"Well, you know what we want, Nick. We've got an angry lover boy here, and to tell you the truth, the rest of his teammates aren't very happy about all the lies either." Tony was the first to stride toward Nick Fury.

Fury put his palm up. "I don't want a fight here."

Clint growled, "If you don't want a fight, I suggest you hop on back to S.H.I.E.L.D. You and the rest of yours really did the best they could." His anger was rising, as was his curiosity. "Tell me, Nick. Why'd you do it? Why is this the first time I've seen your face since you sent out that goddamned letter?"

Fury inhaled through his nostrils, clearly aggravated. "You're heading in the wrong direction, Barton. I'm not the enemy here."

Clint lunged forward, but Steve quickly held him back.

"You can go to hell."

There was an unbearable tension in the room. Everything seemed to slow down, breathe deeply, and wring its hands in aggression. Bruce cleared his throat loudly.

"Excuse me, Fury, but the man asked you a few good questions," he looked at Fury through his glasses, his gaze penetrating, but calm.

Fury shook a shiny black briefcase in his hand. He was mulling something over, what that was nobody knew.

Fury looked down at the tiled floor and spoke. "A yellow parrot."

It was short and simple. The words were enough to make Clint's hands loosen their hostility. Nick Fury knew about his parrot. It wasn't much, but it was a narrow start.

Fury walked closer and set down the briefcase on a glass table, never letting his gaze leave Clint. His face was hard to read, but somewhere in his eyes, there lied regret.

"The yellow parrot, just like the one you saw in Budapest. The first huge mission you two ever took on. Funny that such a bird came into your possession isn't it? What were the chances of that, Barton?" Fury raised his head continuing, "It was in an old pet shop window in Budapest on that cobbled street. The window was dusty and you two had a day off waiting for the weapon shipments to arrive. You passed it and pointed at the parrot. What did you say?"

Clint furrowed his brow, feeling off guard. He cleared his throat. "I told her we would get a bird like that to make everything less—lonely on missions. Natasha rolled her eyes and called it the stupidest idea I've ever had. She told me that I had her, so what was a yellow bird to that? I said that the bird would probably tell me more about itself than she would."

"That probably pissed her off," Tony mused behind him.

Tony's icebreaker went ignored as Fury seemed to get restless. Clint didn't like it any more than Fury himself. He had a bone to pick, maybe a few. What suddenly turned Clint Barton, a head agent, into a taboo? He missed once and blew it all. He missed and got Natasha critically wounded because he was _distracted. _His mind reread the debriefing file from three years ago. There were points in question about Clint and Natasha's professionalism. The file ended with the description of Clint's arrow missing his anticipated target and Natasha's injuries. He remembered screaming until his voice was gone that night after they returned because he knew he landed Natasha in the critical ward. If he hit DeLuca, the man they were after, he figured his life wouldn't have gone to shit so fast. He always thought S.H.I.E.L.D found him no good anymore, which wouldn't be the first time that was the case. In his life, he remembered counting how many times he was no good, they were more than all of the fingers and toes he had combined.

So, after the failed DeLuca mission, S.H.I.E.L.D shook their heavy heads and wrote out a dismissal letter, trying to hide how ashamed they were of him. Nick Fury signed it himself. It was easier for Clint to accept this fate after Natasha had been gone from the Avengers team. She informed the men that she would be leaving the Avengers to work full time at S.H.I.E.L.D again; shortly afterward she told Clint that everything they had was a _mistake_. She needed to get her space from him, and wished he'd try and forget about her. She left him easily, so easily, that he was ready to leave it all too. Without her, what did any of it matter?

Clint tried his best to maintain his composure; he didn't want that pain to come back so quickly. He wished he was still inebriated now, and then shook the thought. He was stuck in the middle of something, and if Natasha was in trouble, he would help her out of it. If she ran off on him again, so be it. He lived years without her before so he figured he could survive again. It wouldn't have texture, his life; it'd be like living without senses. It could happen, but it didn't make life extraordinary, simply livable.

Clint tilted his head, piecing his old fate together again. S.H.I.E.L.D found new agents every day, better talents than the last to wear its logo. He was getting older, more disgruntled in his agent life, this the agency clearly saw.

"You were afraid I'd go rogue," he said. "If I knew the truth about Natasha sooner, the agency was afraid I'd turn and go after her myself."

"And DeLuca," Fury added. "You never missed, Barton. DeLuca was wanted alive for his crimes against the agency, you were all ready to go and put an arrow through his eye. The Council didn't want that and they were damn well ready to do anything to keep him alive."

"Even risking the death of an agent!"

Fury stared Clint down. "You know damn well how we operate, just because you decided to fall in love with another agent doesn't mean the rules have changed."

"DeLuca put three bullets into agent Romanoff. One into her shoulder that went through straight into me, the other went into her leg, the third stuck in her chest. She barely came back from that one, so yeah, I figured an arrow through DeLuca's fucking eye socket was a reasonable exchange in Natasha's favor."

"Not in hers—yours."

Tony mumbled behind Clint. He turned around to look at him. They made eye contact.

"DeLuca is still big. I heard he's real big out in Italy." His eyes bled accusation and Clint knew exactly why that was. Natasha was last known to be in Italy. So the game wasn't over yet.

"Thank you, _Stark._" Fury walked over to his briefcase, not very pleased.

Steve's voice grumbled, "The Council let DeLuca go? Just like that? Even after their mission?"

"I don't like it either, Rogers. I never did. That's why I'm here. And to be frank, if it wasn't for my special ops watching this situation _behind _The Council's back, both Barton _and _Romanoff would be dead."

"The Council is letting DeLuca continue his artificial intelligence weaponry manufacturing in Italy? We were informed he was done—shut down." Bruce spoke angrily, for his knowledge of A.I. weaponry was used and given to Barton and Romanoff before their mission to one of DeLuca's warehouses in Canada. Sad to say Bruce Banner blamed a part of himself for not being able to inform his fellow friends to a danger he knew deep down he couldn't have prevented.

"Because DeLuca is working with something more important to S.H.I.E.L.D. He's stringed to a gathering of weaponry production sites around the world, if Barton and Romanoff took him down that day in Canada, there would be no way for the agency to look for the satellite threats."

Clint's mind cranked harder and he needed to know why Fury insisted that he and Natasha would have been dead if it wasn't for Fury's angelic protection. Was that what S.H.I.E.L.D was willing to do, to kill two agents in order to prevent rogue possibilities and or unveiling lies in the agency? Did Nick Fury save him from that fate by giving him a leave from the agency?

"You saved my ass by dumping my ass," he said this aloud, processing the information.

"They wanted you and Romanoff as far away from each other as possible. You were too dangerous together, a risk for S.H.I.E.L.D, or at least The Council decided. You especially, Barton. You were romantically involved with Romanoff. Sometimes the agents' emotions blind their true judgments; what they need to get done. Even rubs their intentions wrongly. If the master marksman became blind, there would be heaps of trouble within S.H.I.E.L.D."

Clint barked, "But _why?_ What could be so grave of a situation where these measures had to be taken? Why was Natasha moved half way around the world? She let me know that wasn't what she wanted. I don't know if she entirely left on her behalf anymore. The parrot you know yourself, I know she wanted me to know she was still there, and I was there in her mind somewhere."

Maybe Clint was grasping at imaginative straws, finding explanations where there were none. What he feared was thoroughly plausible, that perhaps she felt endangered. He figured that would make her leave quickly. At the same time he wasn't sure. Natasha was as predictable as a tropical storm, and as damaging.

Fury finally opened the suitcase and looked up at Clint with a powerful eye lock. He needed to talk to Clint alone. Nothing else would suffice. He shut it again and began walking down the hall with a ghostly stride.

Clint glanced back at Bruce, his anger rising. Bruce watched Fury leave with a look of interest. Clint knew he had to follow and the others knew he had to go alone.

He followed Fury's dark stature into a meeting room in Tony's quarters. The room was barren, white, and ready for any situation. His heart beat quickly and his head ached with anger. All of this was a lot to take in, all of it thrown into his face. He wasn't sure where Fury stood, an hour ago Fury was his enemy, now as things came to light, it seemed that Fury wasn't necessarily that anymore. Clint was sick of the confusion, he just wanted straight talk.

"Sit down, Barton." Fury walked around to the other side of a metal table, his disposition throwing off a vibe Clint couldn't yet grasp. He knew the man for more than a decade, but it seemed to him that something about this case ruffled up Fury's feathers.

Clint stared down Fury, letting him know he wasn't ready to rollover anytime soon. All that he knew of his pitiful past for the last couple of years was slowly dissolving, the days in the bar forming into a bad memory. He didn't feel like that man at this moment. What Clint felt however, was still his good old self-loathing. He didn't have faith in things much anymore. Faith was a silly thing, for men who had absolutely everything, but begged for more. He on the other hand, had nothing to lose and much to gain. Faith would not be in his agenda tonight, his heart couldn't take it.

"Romanoff is a tricky agent, Barton." he said it so, nothing more.

"Tell me something I don't know," he pulled out a chair and sat down across from Fury.

"I need to know that you're really into this now. You're not going to run off on me now if I let you in… If you do, I can guarantee that it will be the biggest regret of your life." He was stern, ready for any answer. Clint was sure that if he decided to walk away now, go back to his disgusting apartment life, Fury would be no judge. After all, he personally signed Clint's career death certificate a few years back and he knew now Fury felt some regret in that.

Of course, he wasn't going to do such a thing as walk away.

"I'm not going to run off now. I'm the one who knows her and if she's in trouble you will need all the help you can get. What she wants with me afterward is her business." He tried to look as convincing as possible. "How can I know that you'll really be helping me out to find her? This isn't another fuck over, is it?"

Fury slammed his fist onto the table, rattling it violently. "You really think I'd risk my entire career by coming to you right now if I wasn't _in it for real?_ I hated signing that letter of dismissal, but I would hate it even more if I had to sign your fucking death certificate. Do you copy, Barton? I had to make a choice, just like you did in saving Romanoff's ass way back when. I just did it for you this time."

Clint swallowed hard, if he knew one thing about Nick Fury it was that the man didn't fuck around. He believed him. He was also sure that if The Council found out where Fury was now, his ass would be more than on the line. Perhaps Fury was always trying to watch out for him, even if it meant severing his ties with Clint.

"Okay," he looked up at Fury. "How do we get her back?"

There was a ghost of a grin on Fury's face. He analyzed Clint's composure and opened up the briefcase again. Clint's head began to creak and grind back into mission mode. He was good at this, and maybe he could redeem what he lost.

"There are a lot of lies and cover-ups in this whole thing. A lot of good agents have been expended under The Council's nose. A few have had their lives taken, but don't let it get you, they volunteered for this case."

"For Natasha and I?" Clint asked unsure.

"In a way," Fury raised a brow and reached into the briefcase. He gave an awkward grin, which threw Clint for a loop, before pulling out what looked like a photo. "You poor bastard, you really have no idea what you're getting into."

Without a response to that, Clint gave a confident smirk. He never knew what he was really getting into and that was what made situations all the more enthralling.

"You want to know what those other agents and I have been protecting for these past three years?" Fury rolled his shoulders, readying himself for a revealing. Clint waited for the photos of Natasha, or even sky shots of weapon manufacturing. He knew that if Nick Fury was protecting something from The Council's looming eye, it must be important.

Clint raised his chin and waited patiently as Fury gave him one last look as he tossed a 5x7 photo across the table. It landed gently in front of him, the white of the glossy paper facing up, taunting. Whatever was in the photo, Clint was ready to go after it. Whatever was in the photo had caused him a lot of pain.

He reached out for it, his fingers tingling. He flipped it over and looked.

_What?_

His stomach did an unexpected flip. Clearly, there was a mistake. He brought it closer to his face, trying his best to analyze what he was seeing. No matter how long he stared, the picture didn't change.

"Christ. Jesus _Christ_." Clint set it down and leaned back heavily into the chair. He ran a thick hand down his face. The shaking of it couldn't be hidden.

"So you're with me, Barton? I'll do whatever it takes to do this, but I need you in it one hundred and twenty percent. I didn't risk my head for nothing." Fury said it softly, but strongly. It was a platform for Clint to grab onto before he fell too deep into a spiral.

Clint's whole being suddenly felt renewed and inflamed with purpose. It was odd to feel rejuvenated with passion. He would do anything to get Natasha back, he decided. There was no anger in his heart, no sickness in his soul toward her, he only desired her wholeness—her safety. He needed her to tell him everything. He needed Natasha and that photo was proof to him that Natasha needed him back.

Love was a different situation all together. Love could wait. Clint could wait.

Standing up greatly, he took Fury's hand and shook it firmly. Fury nodded approval and turned on his heel to leave the white room in which he just simply flipped Clint's life upside down. Clint took the photo in his hands again and gently touched it's glossy surface. He wanted it to come alive.

He took the greatest care in folding it neatly. He tucked it into his coat pocket near his heart. The thought itself made his skin prickle with newness.

And so the photo of the toothy smiling, strawberry-haired little girl with Clint's passionate blue eyes and Natasha's disposition would stay there simply—over his heart. Nothing else could be as important.

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**/**

**Okay, so who hates me?**

**Okay, that's a lot...**

**Who loves me?**

**Eh, could be a bigger number.**

_Review if you want to give Clint a big hug!_

Really, I want to hear from everyone. I'm a talker so it's a natural want.

Thanks so much and see you soon,

Cassie


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Wayfaring Stranger**

**Rating: T**

**Disclaimer: I don't own 'Tasha or Clint or any other familiar character that pops up.**

**Summary: It's been three years since Clint has seen Natasha. He's been dismissed from S.H.I.E.L.D & the Avengers team. Discovering a certain redhead has been compromised during a suicide mission, he is needed when he is the most unstable. Lies, secrets, and love.**

* * *

_Wow, I can't believe so many of you returned to me! Bless your souls for holding out for a little over a month. I'm glad to see interest in my work._

_Thank you so much for your time! I hope to see feedback-it is my favorite thing hearing from you._

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**3**

There are details people simply miss in everyday life. The most obvious of realities are forgotten in the quest for a deeper meaning. Such as scanning a room for lost keys—it is easy to dig through the cushions of a couch, to curse as the ruffling of papers brought the keys not a bit closer, but farther away. Once a thorough search is completed and every possible cranny has been searched is when the keys suddenly become clear—resting on the mantel of the fireplace.

As a person, the idea is to search long and hard, for the answer couldn't be there so simply. Life is cruel and difficult. God makes our keys impossible to find when we are late.

As an agent, the idea is to search upside down, inside out, and long and hard. However, one must never be afraid to wait; Wait for the bigger picture to form in front of the eyes. Life is cruel and difficult. God makes our keys a lifeline when we are late.

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Clint Barton liked to believe that he raised himself fairly well. For the lack of a delightful childhood, he turned out a level about awful. It was funny to him now, being a par above awful. At sixteen, he could kill a man six different ways with three different weapons. He also had his moments with pretty girls that came around his way, even stole a few things for the hell of it. He was a poster child for the charming bad boy with a softer side. He liked animals—always did. As a boy, he could be found polishing a sword or taking naps with the dogs in the back tent as his oversized cap covered his dozing eyes. It was simple and straightforward. More or less, things were black and white and simply dusty.

More or less, everything seemed to be of familiar territory.

Then suddenly adulthood came around and life was never so black and white again. Things would always be dusty for Clint Barton, but life had gray spots. At first, Clint didn't work well with gray spots in his life; everything was more irritating to handle. His decisions suddenly mattered, and he didn't necessarily make a difference, but his choices are what did it. He didn't have a father to beat him silly when he really screwed up. He didn't have a mother to assure him that tomorrow wouldn't be as terrifying. Clint had his head and a pair of hands that could hold a bow more comfortably than any other bastard around. So he grew up comfortable with those two things.

He remembered the day he sat up in a tree, a simple Mohican quiver strapped to his back, his trusty bow in his hand, with a dangerously angry mind to give him grief. He remembered stumbling over how everyone was shit and how he would teach the world the lesson that it deserved. Clint never asked for much and he always got nothing. So he climbed to his perching spot within the tree and fumed to a climax. A doe and her baby were passing by in a field; he saw them both, knowing they were grazing near a strawberry patch. Clint watched for a moment, curious. He thought how stupid they were to trust things like strawberry patches and salt licks that would sit in the backyards of people for the stupid animals to lick away. His fingers found an arrow just as quickly as he raised his bow to aim. As he drew back with three fingers, he knew it was a silly thing to do. That was why he let go. He couldn't create any worthy world, but Clint Barton could sure as hell destroy one.

The mother doe immediately fell to her side, the yelp of a wounded creature definite. Clint breathed very hard as his bow stayed raised to aim. He was twenty and angry. The legs of the doe quivered around as the baby galloped frightened while circling her. He aimed to wound, not for a quick kill. It was cruel and sick. Clint knew it before he even let go of the arrow. The baby would surely die without its mother. He was suddenly no better than the evil that took his own parents from him. Clint did not notice how wet his cheeks were when he let go of a second arrow to the eye socket of the mother doe. A mercy murder, he thought of it as. He never saw the baby deer again after that day.

Sometimes Clint would be asleep and the R.E.M. stage would take him in. There would be fog, a simple Mohican quiver, a tree too tall to climb, and a blond haired kid thirsting for innocent blood. He would be angry at this younger version of himself and attempt to parent the boy out of becoming scathed with remorse. However, dreams did not work the way he wished they would.

Tonight was one of those nights. Clint already went on a cruise adventure within his dream, a few icebergs floated so closely to his meager ship and he couldn't figure out how to turn the vessel out of danger, then the next he knew, he was up in the tree again. This time the sap was blood and there was laughter. He awoke violently, feeling sunken with fear.

"Whoa, there fella. Keep it inside the R.E.M. stage will you?"

Clint's first instinct was to be on alert. As his eyes came to, he quickly realized that the strange place he was sleeping in didn't belong to him, but to Tony Stark. He felt a knot in his neck and wondered how it happened.

"I keep telling you that the couch is not meant for sleeping, or for any use or purpose whatsoever. Every single late night these past four days you have refused to listen to me and now I'm going to have to get a new designer couch." said the voice to his left.

Clint turned and saw Tony bent over his technology system, a blue light eerily illuminating his front like a phantom in the dim lab. Soft beeps followed his quick finger tips. Something seemed off to him.

Clint cleared his throat of sleep. "It's quiet in here."

Tony seemed to hear him, but didn't turn around.

"You need the music to do your magic, right?" Tony answered with a gruff yes. "You're working without it."

"Hmm… seems that I am." Clint watched Tony lean over slightly and turn up the volume on his sound system. Rock and roll suddenly filled the space.

Clint knew what this was. He wasn't sure whether he appreciated it or felt bothered by it. Getting up slowly, for the couch did a number on his back too, he walked over to Tony's work space. The genius clicked and worked away barely acknowledging Clint's presence beside him.

"You don't need to worry about me like some _mom, _Stark," Clint stated. Tony raised an eyebrow and turned up the music incredibly loud. Motioning to his ears he mouthed something that looked like 'I can't hear you' before he turned back to his business.

Clint growled and found the power option for the sound system. Striking it with fervor he waited for a second of silence to gather his mind. Taking a breath in, he leaned against the work area, the colors of Stark's holograms zooming in front of his eyes. He felt silly again.

"I'm sor-,"

"You don't have to say anything. I get it." Tony looked at him matter-of-factly and it gave him comfort. Clint knew that he did get it. And being of lesser words in situations like this made Tony Stark a better companion than Steve. Steve was kinder sure, but also a bit more gazing and needing of answers. Tony couldn't care less, or rather, that was what he wanted everyone in Stark Tower to believe. Clint knew better though. He had seen that play on many men's faces before. Tony Stark did care somewhere within him.

Clint frowned and gave him a nod of understanding.

Tony sighed and looked long and hard at Clint, his dark eyes analyzing. He got up from his seat at his work station and walked over to a pile of things behind him. Clint watched warily, unsure what he was doing.

For the past four days, Clint would leave his apartment and come to Stark Tower, aiding in the search for Natasha's whereabouts. It bugged him to no end. It was terribly ironic—as an agent, he was used to being debriefed for months before a big mission, he thought nothing of it then, yet, seeing as this mission was more personal than anything, he could hardly keep still in the city. All he wanted to do was take one of Fury's jets and fly out to Italy to be useful.

It was silly, heroic fantasies. There would be no way that winging it in Italy would be helpful to anybody. Yet, he still desired a quick getaway.

Though, he could not. Clint was to go back to his apartment, feed his bird, feed himself, and act as though the Stark Tower incident was nothing more than a mental breakdown every single day. At night, he was able to slip out unnoticed and trek to the Tower with limited worries. He would help the team by night, giving little pieces of Natasha away in the hopes that it would bring their puzzle pieces together. All of that was completely logical. Fury handled the 'break in protocol' very well to the World Council. Clint wasn't sure what Fury had told them after news broke of Clint Barton's 'rampage' to Stark Tower. The Council asked Fury to keep watch on Clint when he could, they didn't want to deal with Barton very much at all.

Things worked out in the team's favor; however, it still made Clint cringe. He had to go back to his apartment and act as though his life wasn't completely flipped. He had to shut away his seething anger for the Council for it would surely cause trouble for everyone if he didn't. It was sickening that it still felt as though they were winning, the people who ruined him in the first place.

Sitting in his apartment with a thumping head and a tired heart, he forced himself to shut it away and try to act as common as the team was used to seeing him. He didn't budge with his overflowing disappointment in his position as a deadbeat agent. He gritted his teeth and mumbled out any information he might know, the results of everything coming in too slow for his liking. S.H.I.E.L.D kept it all hidden well with obvious purpose.

"Here it is," Stark pulled out a square photo from under his mountain of files. He found it curious that Tony began making some of the files he stored on his many drives to paper copies for Steve's sake. Steve was an old styled man; he liked the folder in his hand. Clint appreciated that also.

"The other day I got this off of Nick's stuff. Not real sure whether he wanted you to see it or not, but I say to hell with it, you've waited long enough." Tony handed over a small print. Clint analyzed it and felt thick.

"Her hair's different," he stated softly.

Before Tony could say anything back, the power doors of the lab opened. Banner looked in, his spectacles slowly sliding down his nose.

"Hey, Clint, I'm glad you're still here. I need your eye, if you don't mind." Banner's eye caught a glimpse of the photo in Clint's hand and the smallest bit of sadness seemed to wash over him. Clint understood why.

"Definitely," Clint nodded sternly to the doctor. He was itching to be of more help. That's what bugged Clint. At least when S.H.I.E.L.D kept him around he was able to get great leads from their intelligence due to being in S.H.I.E.L.D's main loop, but seeing as he really had nothing like that anymore, he could only give use of his extensive background information—as long as it was up to date. In three years' time, everything was out of date it seemed; even he felt old and useless at this point and time.

As the two men took an elevator to the floor of Banner's work area, they remained rather silent. It wasn't an awkward silence formed out of distance, but rather a tiring one. Clint figured if he was exhausted, Banner must be as well. Both Tony and Banner were given double orders of laboratory duties on Fury's account. The idea was, if suddenly all work flow stopped in their two labs; S.H.I.E.L.D would be highly suspicious in the light of Barton's appearance at Stark Tower. So as a result, Fury gave the scientists filler work along with 'here and there' bits of Natasha's mission information.

As they rounded the corner to Banner's lab, he found it odd that Banner stopped mid-step.

"Everything good, Banner?" Clint asked, thinking of the doctor's workload.

Banner eyed a security camera in the corner of the hall and straightened his back the smallest bit. His hands found the pockets of his baggy pants and he pulled out a slender looking pen with Dr. Banner neatly engraved on the cap in black.

Whatever game was being played, Clint would play along. There was a reason for everything Banner did and Clint trusted him well enough.

Banner twirled the pen in his right hand, analyzing it carefully. He began to whisper casually, "there is another pair of eyes and ears in my lab; I found a hidden surveillance pack in a tiny air vent near the back where I do most of my experimental recordings. Now, I don't know how long it's been there, but I'm sure Tony's lab downstairs is clean of them. He knows about this one too. I haven't been able to work on our _stuff _due to it. It seems that the Council is a little more interested in me than they were a few short days ago."

"I'm sure they are. With your knowledge of not only DeLuca, but A.I.s as well." He couldn't say he was surprised that there was a bug planted in Banner's lab. Of course the Council wouldn't have let everyone off the hook so quickly.

"I'm not that fond of bugs," Banner's connotation couldn't have been more obvious to him.

"I'm not a bug guy either," Clint raised a brow and looked into the lab quickly where Banner said the secret surveillance was.

Banner nodded and walked into his lab quickly, taking a cardboard box off of a nearby shelf. He brought it over to Clint who stood out of the lab's line of vision in the hall, and set it in his arms.

"This seems like an appropriate repellent," Banner waited for Clint's okay before slowly walking into his lab for good.

Clint knew the air systems well in Stark Tower. He was glad to be doing something he was good at—pulling a big one over the enemy.

When Clint was properly positioned close to where the bug was planted, he looked in the box for the new camera Banner had put inside. He pulled it out, a skinny thing which would be nearly impossible to detect, and investigated it. It looked as though Banner gave Clint a camera with pre-installed footage on it. Flipping it in his hands, he took off the back and pulled out two small wire connectors. Feeling slightly bored with how easy the exchange would be, he sighed softly. At least his talents were good at this moment.

It was a quick job, carefully connecting the bug camera's wires to Banner's in a seamless motion. He knew S.H.I.E.L.D wouldn't be able to tell the difference for a while. Banner really was a humble genius and sometimes he felt that Banner didn't get the credit he deserved. He was a kind man, disgustingly intelligent, and rather in-tune with other people's emotions. He couldn't say much about Banner being one with his own inner being, but at least it was something.

Walking into Banner's lab he saw the man hunched over working. He carried the box back to the shelf it was on originally.

"Took care of the infestation and if you wouldn't mind adding it the short list of Clint Barton's can-do list, that'd be so helpful since I'm more like a heap of space than a heap of help these past four days." Clint knew he could be better than an ex-assassin whom fell asleep on Stark's couch waiting for a hit to come up on the system.

An urge to spill himself over on Banner came suddenly. Clint was frustrated, and he wanted somebody to know. He was tired of the team being careful around him. He was tired of Steve's pitiful glances in his direction. Clint Barton was just worn-out and anxious for action. He was tired of pretending that everything was normal—that there wasn't a little kid out there with his eyes and a woman with his heart.

"You know, four days ago I learned that I have a child somewhere in a small town in Ohio, a _whatever _she is, going about in Italy with an intelligence agency just aching for her to screw up, and I'm sure they would like for Natasha to perish on the job, and even after all this shit, I'm still here, I'm still at my apartment on the top floor just _waiting_."

Banner's jaw tightened, but he did not look at him.

"I mean, that little kid—she looks like Nat, but she looks like me too. Who's protecting her? Who's her stand in mom and dad? Do they read her stories or tuck her in? If everything I hope for is right, the kid won't even know they aren't the real thing. You know? I just hope it's not a fake home for her to grow up in. Even if she never meets me and I never meet her, I will die okay knowing that she is genuinely loved and washed."

Clint meant it. His heart ached to see that baby in front of him—for her to be real and huggable. He lay in his apartment one night, wondering how things would have been if everything went right. If Natasha stayed close to him, if the baby was born into a world of purpose, maybe he would feel less horrible about it all. Yet, the smarter bit of him wretchedly laughed it off. Nothing was ever easy for him. Things never came wrapped up happily to his address box. He knew, almost sure, Natasha would have terminated the pregnancy before Clint even knew about it. Then again, maybe she would have stayed with him if she did.

Nothing was ever easy for him, never. That was the way he grew up, hard and bloody. He'd be damned to let that girl grow up that way too.

Banner inhaled gently, "Well, I don't have all of those answers. What I do know is that she is safe and healthy. That baby is surrounded by only Fury's top choices. Hill herself volunteered to be the placement mother, and she would have been too if it wasn't for her need to stay inside S.H.I.E.L.D."

Clint let his head drop a bit and he laughed without humor. "You know… that woman really gets me into trouble."

Banner gave him an awkward sideways grin and mumbled, "Women always get us into trouble, but that's why we love them more than anything."

For the first time in a while Clint spoke truthfully, almost sharp. "Sometimes you got to wonder if she's worth it at all."

The doctor bounced on his heels lightly, riding the tension between them. He spoke plainly, "I guess that's for you to decide, my friend."

There were a lot of things Clint Barton did not know. There were more things he didn't know than there were things he did. He wanted nothing more than to sit across from Natasha as in an interrogation and flat out ask her 'why this and why that'. In his perfect interrogation, she would comply with his request for only the truth. Natasha would set aside her Red Room mask and be the woman he knew first thing in the mornings when she would be at her most vulnerable. There wasn't much time to hide a lie when the eyes were barely open. Then again, Natasha was a dangerous expert.

Clint needed to remind himself that he was dangerous too. He tangoed with a woman who made her living off of a deceitful nature. Whatever Natasha's plan had been, or her general intentions toward him three years ago, it was already in the past. Even further in the past, Clint was sent on orders to kill the Black Widow, what he came back with however, was a Natalia Romanova.

_She has sincere skills and training, he had told an angry Nick Fury. She could do incredible work for S.H.I.E.L.D._

He was saving a lost creature left to die. Simple as that. Natalia Romanova warned Clint Barton to stay away, she was no _good_ woman. He raised an eyebrow and begged to differ and asked her to come back to S.H.I.E.L.D with him. He promised her protection and she laughed in his face.

_Nobody can protect me from myself, Mr. Hawkeye._

Was Natasha that doe from his childhood? In saving her, would he save that bit of him that screamed regret? Natasha Romanoff also warned Clint Barton to stay away, this time as a lover; she was no _good_ woman she had whispered into his kiss. He smiled against her lips and growled that he wasn't interested in a _good_ woman.

How it made Clint want to pitifully laugh now. Natasha had been telling his stupid ass all along. She was no good woman.

Then again, Clint Barton was no good man.

And there was nothing Natasha could do about that.

* * *

_And over in this corner we have a Clint Barton who is rightfully frustrated with Natasha Romanoff-_

_And over in this corner we have a Clint Barton who SHOULDN'T be frustrated with Natasha Romanoff-_

Would you be frustrated with your used-to-be-Russian lover/partner for the lies she can (or can't) help?

Not going to lie, I'd be a little torn myself.

**You tell me (that's the R&R part).**

**See ya,**

_Cassie_


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Wayfaring Stranger**

**Rating: T**

**Disclaimer: I don't own 'Tasha or Clint or any other familiar character that pops up.**

**Summary: It's been three years since Clint has seen Natasha. He's been dismissed from S.H.I.E.L.D & the Avengers team. Discovering a certain redhead has been compromised during a suicide mission, he is needed when he is the most unstable. Lies, secrets, and love.**

* * *

_I've been terribly busy/lazy to write up a fourth chapter for over a month. I know! I'm sorry! College began again and that takes a while to settle back into the swing of things. I just started a new job so I'm going to be even busier with that too. _

_- I'm going to be honest with everyone, this is probably one of the best chapters I will write for this story, so please **R&R** for me._

_- You also get to see a little of what Natasha is doing and tell me if you liked having a dash of her between some of Clint's story._

_-As always, keep me encouraged with this story so I can get the motivation to finish it more quickly! I'm not kidding, you guys are the ONLY reason I do this._

* * *

**4**

It was dreadfully muggy. The air in his apartment seemed to stick to his skin like a fine glue, his black fitting sweater clung to his forearms as he tried to push them up for a mindless ventilation. His bare feet made a sticking noise on the floor as he paced along slowly, thoughtfully. He had been doing this pacing routine for the last hour. Surely the time had to be 3 a.m. now.

Clint Barton looked down at his watch. He was correct in his guess of time, it was 3:03 a.m. He tucked his arm back under the other across his chest and continued the slow pace back and forth.

There was something they were missing, something they didn't understand. Clearly, there were many things everyone back at Stark Tower didn't know about Natasha's mission over to Italy. Slowly, the facts started rolling in, but that didn't help answer their many questions. His approach had to be different now, for waiting around at Stark Tower didn't seem to allow him to think to his full potential. Clint knew what he needed to be a good thinker and that was quiet space and the access to analyze all the given information from a distance, which included being alone for a while.

"You accepted the mission to Italy…" Clint mumbled out to himself as he explored his facts. "However, before that you stayed in the small town of Sandusky, Ohio. We both know that they must have sent you there to give birth like some sort of animal… The child is under protection there. We need to also assume that The Council is very, very interested in her upbringing, but Fury was able to gain access to Sandusky's operations. He placed the girl with people _Fury _could trust—for the most part, and you must have known that, Natasha or else you never would have risked completing a pregnancy in the first place."

Clint stopped his mindless shambling and exhaled, rubbing a calloused hand down his tired face. "Natasha Romanoff—_pregnant. _You really are one big surprise after another," he huffed. "I am _missing _something."

He heard his yellow parrot whistle down the hall. Maybe what he needed was a visual. He was better with visuals.

"Alright, Natasha, since you mean to be difficult," he mumbled sarcastically, knowing it was a bit absurd to be talking to the empty, humid air of his apartment. He stalked off toward his bedroom already knowing exactly what he was looking for.

Clint calmed down over the past few days since he learned about Natasha's compromised state; a week and a half passed him mockingly by. Whenever he would think about the situation he was in, his anger and bitterness would cloud better judgment. He was only observing the situation from his position, which was half-filled with betrayal, half hurt. Emotions were deadly. That was a true fact known in the proverbial handbook of his line of work in the agency. After being out of his own game for about three years, it seemed that important fact was forgotten. It was lost between the nights of travelling to bars and tasting the 'finer' whiskeys that New York had to offer combined with the nights of pure anger, ripping through him like a wildfire. That reality of alcohol and anger was too disgusting to remember the basic facts of his way of life; things he was taught to never forget.

Coming into the dark bedroom, he walked over to his closet. He opened it and leaned in to click on the light that shone above. Like he thought before, he needed visuals to help figure out Natasha's motives and he knew exactly where to get them. Ruffling through a few dark jackets, he dug through pockets, pulling out napkins, old pens, a few dollar bills; he felt a glossy surface and pulled out the photo that Nick Fury had tossed to him only a short time ago.

"There you are," he glanced at it quickly before gently folding it into the back pocket of his jeans.

Digging through an old pair of dark pants, he found the photo Tony handed over to him back at Stark Tower. He looked at it a bit sadly and folded it into the back pocket along with the other. Heading to his kitchen table with purpose, he took out both photos and smoothed them out along the wood. Placing them side-by-side wasn't as easy as he figured it would be. A small pang of worry stuck at the base of his throat. Coughing to relieve himself of it, he walked over to the fridge and opened it. The coolness of the refrigerator was refreshing in the sticky air, he relished the few seconds before pulling out a bottle of water and closing the door.

"Okay, girls, let this old man in on the secrets."

* * *

A slinking figure expertly dodged through the morning crowds all talking loudly about the street. A pretty melon rolled off of a market stand and she leapt over it without much of a thought. The vendor rambled in the Old Italian language complaining about the lack of customers interested in his melons. After all, he had the most beautiful melons in all of Italy, why weren't they all flocking to him?

The figure continued. No attention was paid to her in the busy market street. Vendors called to passersby and held their produce and meats high in the air, attempting to attract paying customers. A young, dark haired boy with a missing front tooth gently tugged on her light shawl. He shyly held out a tray of freshly baked bread. She gave him a gentle smile and placed three coins in his hand before taking a small loaf. Nibbling on it as she continued through the cobbled street, her dutiful eyes continued to scan for any evidence of him. Like clockwork, he came here every Saturday morning. His silver hair and suit bought with a fortune, he stood out shockingly from the usually plain dressed people of the market. She knew he liked it this way, he was an arrogant man, and he wanted the poor to know he was powerful. A few heads in front of her began curiously looking ahead, mumbling of a man who was very rich. She pulled the dark red shawl closer over her head and scanned her surroundings.

Her eyes grew much darker as she spotted the shine of silver hair very quickly. Her hand mindlessly gave a gentle pat at the concealed pistol on the inside of her thigh, just underneath her printed long skirt. A beggar child walked by, dragging her dirty feet, and she handed off the warm loaf without breaking her line of vision from her target. The child gasped as the mystery woman strutted past without giving her as much as a look.

Hiding within the coverage of colorful, undulating Italian textiles, she watched the man point at fruits at a vendor booth a few yards away heartily laughing at something Natasha was sure wasn't funny. She wasn't a humorous woman anyway. She felt a twist of anger before she reminded herself to stay as void as possible. Being void was safer.

Suddenly, she felt the tip of a pistol at her side and a strong grip around her left arm. She yanked her arm and the pistol tip dug deeper into her. Both she and her captor knew that there were too many people around for her to fight him off without all of the attention switching to her, in turn exposing her to the silver haired target.

"_Black Widow,_" a man whispered into her ear with a strong accent. "We had a feeling that you would eventually show yourself in the open."

Natasha did not say a word. Her eyes stayed on the silver hair ahead of her.

"We've been waiting. We must congratulate you that after months of threats, you dared not to expose yourself and you still stayed hidden from us." Her captor began walking her away from the crowd of the market and into a less occupied side street. Clothes hung from homes above them, drying in the hot morning sun.

Natasha spoke dryly, "I guess you boys know how to hit a woman right in her sensitive spots," she quickly scanned the area as mostly clear, "but then again, I know how to hit a man in his too."

Her captor was too slow to realize what she meant before he received a heavy blow to the testicles. He gasped, the pistol at her side faltering from the blow. As the street became narrower she used the man's weight to quickly bring herself up the wall of a stone building. Flipping herself over his right shoulder, she used her weight and his own against him. He was unconscious once he hit the stone street.

She cursed in Russian as she understood her situation. Clearly, DeLuca's men would know that she was here. In fact, this Saturday's market venture analyzing DeLuca seemed more like a set up to reel her in than anything else. She cursed her foolishness, her fear, her weaknesses for showing herself today. Natasha Romanoff seemed to be splitting into extremes. Either she was all Black Widow, forgetting about Natasha during trouble, or she was Natasha Romanoff: S.H.I.E.L.D agent. Natasha was more vulnerable now. She had weaknesses, she had bloodlines, and she knew the dangers of being foolish. The Black Widow was carefully foolish and haughty; the Black Widow didn't have a bloodline or any reason to fear for family. It was a dangerous line of persona.

Not only was the Black Widow trying to protect herself, she was also trying to protect two others that have been burdened by her heart. She did not know what was happening with her partner, Clint Barton. She knew he was in much danger, especially in regards to The World Council. They were ruthless, power-hungry bastards for what she knew, and they were very angered by Clint and Natasha's personal involvement with one another. What was worse—The Council controlled her mission over in Italy. Everything was in their control. What was heard on her intercoms, what reports she was sent; Natasha was in this completely alone and The Council wanted her to know it.

What scared her most of all—what absolutely terrified Natasha Romanoff was the knowledge that The Council was very interested in a little girl in the state of Ohio. That child had a clean slate, was innocent, and was nothing like the ones who created her. In order to keep that baby as wholesome as possible, Natasha was threatened out to Italy for a suicide mission. She would go, of course, already feeling like a terrible mother for being stupid enough to allow her daughter to be born to her. The Council was angry for this mistake of Natasha's. She wasn't supposed to be involved with Agent Barton, let alone have his child. She was in this business for a long time, and she could tell when an agency wanted to rid itself of agents that pissed off the head honchos.

Some nights she would lay in the skinny bed at her living complex, the sweet and foreign air would creep in through the window and she would weep. She would apologize to Barton for not letting him know about his daughter, she would wish good dreams to a child she barely knew, yet knew very well. Most of all, she would wish that her child was nothing like her, and that Barton would find her and raise her well enough. Eventually, she would tire and slip into a light sleep. Her arms would get cold as the foreign air would give a chilly bite. It was one of the very few times that the Black Widow was truly sorry for how the world was.

* * *

Clint sighed and stretched his sore back as he sat at the table. He picked up the picture of the little girl. It bugged him that he didn't even know her name, it almost formed in his mind that the baby didn't have one—that Natasha was too quick to leave to give her one. He pondered what name she looked like and he couldn't find one that was perfect enough to fit.

"I hope your mom gave you a suitable name. I think if I was around when you were born, I'd have made sure that she picked the perfect one for someone like you." he spoke plainly and fake memories of being around the baby when she was first born were teasing his mind. He wondered how everything went when she first arrived, and when it came to it, Clint Barton couldn't stop feeling guilty for not being there when she was born into the world. He had to remind himself that there was really no possible way for him to have done so.

He silently apologized to the child for already leaving her alone and he hoped that she didn't notice at all. Clint pushed the picture of the child away carefully and pulled Natasha's forward. He looked over it warily.

"You didn't have to dye your hair. The dark brown is too harsh for you, Nat."

In the photo, a very different Natasha Romanoff was captured on camera. She looked more sullen, skinny, and more terrified than Clint could remember. Of course, if an amateur eye took a look at the very same photo, they wouldn't see the fear coming from her. Clint did, and he had to know why. Fear is what drives people to do very desperate things. He categorized Natasha's quick leave and disappearance, and the leaving of a very new baby, as desperate. No matter if she truly believed she wanted the child or not, the child was born, so that's all Clint needed to know that she at least wanted to give that baby a chance at something. Though he didn't know what that chance was, he was undoubtedly grateful Natasha had given the baby a fighting chance.

Natasha was very protective, mothers still bonded with their babies and he knew Natasha wasn't going to be an exception to that rule. Clint was probably one of the only people on Earth who wholly believed that Natasha would be a great mother if she ever wanted to. He always told her that was her choice of course, and then he would change the subject so Natasha could untighten her shoulders. Maybe that's what scared Natasha enough to go on a mission; maybe she was terrified of her daughter… or rather _for _her. Clint couldn't think of any other reason that the very protective Natasha Romanoff would simply and riskily accept a deadly mission so suddenly. There had to be a push. There had to be a moment where Natasha knew that leaving would put the child in less danger than staying. Someone had to be threatening her.

And the only group on the planet with enough power to threaten Natasha Romanoff away from her own child with a fighting chance would be The World Council.

Clint shot up out of his chair and quickly folded the photos in his jean pocket. He knew what Natasha would want him to do.

Once Clint reached Stark Tower and was inside, the other men and Pepper were startled by his sudden appearance. They were on alert themselves, smelling the fishiness within S.H.I.E.L.D. He quickly asked for them to come to Tony's comfy living room in the early morning. Tony grumbled about leaving a current project before throwing himself down on the couch next to a sleepy looking Pepper.

"Alright, Robin Hood, spit it all out," Tony yawned. Steve crossed his arms and gave Tony a sharp look.

"I know why Natasha went on the suicide DeLuca mission," he said quickly, his eyes looking for support.

"Why?" Pepper asked, intently curious and upset about Natasha's unfortunate situation.

"The World Council threatened her—our child. They must have eyes over Fury's men in Ohio as well. If they were pissed off enough at her and at me for getting involved intimately, then there's no better way to scare the hell out of her than to threaten that child resulting from it. It's supposedly the perfect plan. I would never know about the baby because they terminated me from S.H.I.E.L.D and I never would have gained access to the agency, let alone figure out my kid was over in Ohio somewhere. I would be a mindless drunk and killing me would be easy if The Council had to do it sometime down the line. I was made to know that Natasha left me for nothing, so I would be out of the picture. They must have known that Natasha silently wanted her child, so they allowed Fury to take the reins on setting up a safe house surrounded by what he knew as his agents to protect them both," he began piecing it together aloud.

"So when the time was right, The Council could use you and that baby of yours as a weakness and threaten Natasha with it, making her comply with being sent to Italy on a suicide mission. And once Natasha is expended, they would simply pluck up her baby and take it in as a mystical dark mistake that they could raise themselves to _their _liking," Steve chimed in, his arms still crossed in anger.

Bruce cleared his throat, "You really think The Council's plan all along was to make Clint and Natasha's kid a minion? I don't think that's truly what they're after here. I think their biggest play is punishment and getting Natasha possibly killed on a mission where she was made to exterminate DeLuca. It puts the best pieces together; the child is simply an extra thing they'd have to deal with later. Possibly she would forever be a good piece to threaten anyone with."

Clint's stomach twisted. A few times, he would bring up the idea of children to Natasha, only once did she ponder it being a little nice. The other four times she assured him that anyone could use a baby as leverage, or other horrendous arrays of dangerous situations. He held his optimism to his chest until this very moment, now he knew he should have listened better.

"Natasha accepted because she felt that she had no other choice," Pepper whispered gloomily.

"Not only were Natasha and I sent on that rigged DeLuca mission the first time, we still managed to piss them off even more when they found out about her pregnancy. We were their best players, god forbid we quit the game without them using us to death."

Tony who had been surprisingly quiet this whole time suddenly spoke up, "So when are we going to fetch baby Barton?"

Everyone's eyes were set on him, either confused or misinterpreting what he said.

Steve scoffed, "She's safe there isn't she? We should focus on getting Natasha back first."

"No, Tony's right," Clint nodded at the dark haired genius.

Tony looked at Steve, "It doesn't matter who is first. Natasha would _want _us to get the kid. If we showed up guns blazing for Natasha she would kill us all if she found out we never got the kid."

Bruce added, "Besides that is what is keeping her tame at this moment. If she lashes out, she fears that they would do something to the baby; she knows Fury couldn't possibly know to weed out all the bad agents over there. She has to watch her step."

"The best way to help her is to give that kid to her father. That's what Natasha hopes for," Pepper's eyes locked with Clint's and he knew she was right. As much as he needed to get Natasha back, the kid was first.

"Once we get the girl, you know The Council will figure everything out. Things will get difficult. They'll know Clint is with us. Most importantly, we cannot tell Director Fury about our plans for this, if they find out Fury helped, he'll be dead too. So the more innocent he seems the better for everyone." Steve walked over to Clint and nodded.

Tony checked the time and looked up at them. "It's 4:30 a.m. Anybody up for a little morning rescue?"

Everyone was suited up inside Tony's private jet before 5 a.m. Clint offered to fly it, but Tony shook his head no. Slightly aggravated, Clint tapped his finger against the wood grain of the fancy seat until they were five minutes out from Sandusky, Ohio. He saw the dark red of morning sky coming through the windows of the jet and he rubbed his hand through his hair. Today, things would be very different.

Steve piped up over the engines as it began to land, "Let's make this very quick. Be careful and do _not _kill any agents who may attack. We don't know who is who. Bruce, we need you to stay on the jet and give directions of the layout of this place and be our eyes. Hack any alarm triggering devices if possible," Steve turned to Clint suddenly. "And Clint… we'll cover you, you go get your girl and bring her back to this jet ASAP."

Suddenly, he felt anxious. "Will do," he replied with his face firmly set.

The team rushed off the jet. Tony grasped Clint by his quiver and flew towards the roof of the building. Gently dropping Clint to the roof, he rolled safely to the door. It was locked with a vice-like electronic locking system.

Clint spoke into the intercom, "Bruce… I need a little help unlocking this roof door. It's electronically wired to lock. I can get as far as the wires-," before Clint could finish, the door unlocked with a loud clicking noise.

"All set, Barton. Watch out on the stairwell down, they planted three motion detectors. I can terminate them for a maximum of ten seconds. You're going to need to run very fast to the second level," Bruce reported.

Tony came over the intercom, "America and I just took out a few guards out front. We'll get into the first level and cover you once you grab the kid."

"Copy that, Stark."

Bruce counted down from three until Clint could get inside the stairwell. He swung open the heavy door and ran down to the third level. He knew that time was creeping by so he swung himself over the metal banister and heaved himself onto the second landing. Opening the door to the second level he waited for further instruction. His head was purely ready for anything, but his nerves were telling him otherwise. He never pondered how the child would react to being taken away by a strange group in costume.

Bruce's voice was soft in his ear, "She'll be the second door on the right, Barton." Clint could see it as Bruce spoke. Regardless of being in control, he inhaled a shaky breath.

He looked at the door and noticed another electronic lock, but he had taken down many of these types before. He disassembled it in less than twenty seconds and before he had a chance to think about it, he opened the door and quickly went inside, closing it behind him.

The room was still dim, dark grey shades kept out most of the light of early morning. Clint's breathing increased as he saw a tiny sleeping form on a very low queen sized bed. Two gates were on either side in case the child rolled off in the night. Being very quiet he walked over in the dim light. He paused for a second and thought about the intricate bow in his hand and the large quiver on his back and how it could look very scary to a small child. He quickly set the bow down and slipped off his quiver and set it on the ground.

"Barton?" Bruce questioned. Surely his intelligent friend was watching Clint's every move on his feed of the security cameras inside the jet and wondered if surrendering his weapons was a good idea.

"I don't want to scare her," Clint hissed back quietly.

The child shifted under the pile of blankets and her small hand came up to her face, mindlessly rubbing her nose still sleeping. It was so different to see her right in front of him, alive and very real. He was in awe, how beautiful and tiny she was. He'd seen children this small before, but never his own. Her strawberry hair covered some of her face and along the white pillowcase so it looked like an intricate sunset. Clint had to be honest with himself, he was usually never one to be unsure on how to approach something, but this was definitely a time where he had no idea what the hell to do.

"C'mon we gotta go, Hawk," Steve pressed into the intercom.

Without thinking, he gently gathered up the sleeping child, throwing off the giant comforter. The child continued to sleep, but mumbled nonsense in a soft voice. He looked around quickly for a blanket or something to keep her warm on the way back. Seeing a neatly folded green blanket with a silly looking giraffe at the end of the bed, he quickly swept it up and wrapped her in it. He quickly walked to the door and suddenly the child stirred.

"No!" she softly cried out, her eyes still half-heavy with sleep. Her little arm extended out over Clint's shoulder back to her bed. He tensed and turned around, looking for what she wanted. He saw nothing but a soft looking baby doll with a pink dress. Clint went to grab it and stuffed it safely between the child and his chest so it wouldn't fall. He noticed the glint of his quiver on the floor where he had taken it off and cursed quietly. Throwing it back onto his back with a smooth agility, he cursed because he knew he wouldn't risk carrying out the dangerous bow with his daughter in his arms. He had to leave it.

"Ready to fly, everyone copy?" Clint said in a confident voice as he opened the door of the room. He looked down the hallway and noticed people in the building beginning to wake up for the morning, at least the agents. "Got a few agents in the halls. I've got my hands full, somebody come and give me an extra hand." Before he knew it, he saw Tony fly through the halls and gently take out the few flabbergasted agents.

"Let's go, you two," Tony leaded the way for Clint to safely leave the building.

Clint couldn't believe the child didn't wake up once during the escape of the building. She stayed warmly nuzzled into his neck, he was even sure she left a spot of drool on his suit. Bruce wasn't even sure there was a child under the green blanket until he saw a contrast of strawberry hair trickling over the edge of it. He gave a sad, grateful grin to his friend and shooed the team away so the child wouldn't be overwhelmed in case she woke up. Quickly, the jet took off and Clint refused to let go of his sleeping child on the way back. He kept her little giraffe blanket tight around her shivering body as he allowed the comfortable jet passenger seat to recline back. He gently smelled the powdery smell of her hair, and he was so glad that some of Natasha's color had come through. The baby's hair wasn't as vivid as Natasha's but it was enough to remind him of who her mother was. Clint craned his neck to look at her small sleeping face. She had pretty round cheeks with a flush of pink in them, her eyelashes were long and dark blonde, her eyebrows rather fair—if he didn't know any better he'd think she was a baby doll. He noticed that her skin tone was not as fair and porcelain as her mother's, but rather a little darker like his. He wondered about her personality, he wondered if she knew who created her, he wondered if she knew somewhere within her that her father was keeping her warm as she napped away on his chest.

Steve opened the blue curtain and looked at the sleeping bundle and smiled. He caught Clint's eye and quietly wondered if he was allowed to come in. Clint nodded to a chair across from him and Steve sat down.

"I found this by the entrance of the jet, I'm guessing it's hers," he said quietly, holding up the little soft doll. Steve turned it around in his hand and looked at the dress. The doll had red hair too and Clint wondered if that was why the doll had been so special to her, it was the only connection the girl had. "What's it say here?" Steve looked at the front of the doll closely, he knew what it was and instead of saying it out loud, he handed it over to Clint who took it with a free hand.

Clint knew what it was too. In very neat stitching that Clint could only connect with Natasha, the baby's little dress read, "This doll belongs to Anna Vera Barton". He tightened it in his grasp not daring to let it go. Natasha knew he would come for their daughter at one point, and he knew that Natasha figured she would die before she ever got to be with Anna Vera Barton. Somebody needed to know who she really was, if anything, Anna needed to know who she was. Steve carefully watched Clint.

"I guess she knew somebody would find her," Steve said quietly, agelessly.

Clint furrowed his brow and held back what he could. His daughter was much more real with a name. He wrapped his arms around her warm form and held her even closer. He closed his eyes and buried his head into the powdery smelling blanket. Anna's soft hair tickled his chin and he began to silently cry. He was so quiet, he even heard Steve's quiet footsteps let him be as he left. His watery tears burned and he slowly began to rock Anna. His calloused hand rubbing the softest of circles around her small back, his face still buried as close to his daughter as possible.

He never cried these types of tears before. He didn't know what they were. "Oh, God. Thank you. _Thank you, Natasha,_" Was all the World's Greatest Marksman could quietly say to the daughter with a fighting chance.

* * *

**QUICK NOTES:**

Anna Vera is pronounced "Ah-na Vair-ah"! Not An-nah. Sometimes reviewers ask :)

Let me know what you think about the little Natasha section. Honestly, I was very glad to see her. (Write her, I suppose).

What do you think of Daddy Barton and his little Anna?

Even though he's a big tough archer, he's nothing but squishy on the inside! All of the sarcastic archers are squishy. C:

Maybe even let me know what you'd REALLY like to see? I'm always curious and who knows- maybe it'd be a great idea that will get my brain going for the next chapter!

Any questions?

Leave thoughts if you'd be so kind and hopefully see you beautiful souls very soon!

_Cassie_


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